Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

I climbed out of the yellow taxi and paused, needing to get my emotional bearings as much as my geographical ones.

The low buildings and narrow streets of the Village were a sharp contrast to the skyscrapers around me now. Mid-town’s concrete sidewalks were huge, the crowds dense and loud, the traffic a perpetual snarl of taxis, buses, limos, trucks, and luxury cars.

People were in a much bigger hurry in this part of the city and generally dressed more formally. North of St. Patrick’s Cathedral (where we were now) the Avenue also boasted some of the highest temples of haute couture: Gucci, Prada, Bulgari, and Tiffany.

Even though my desire to stay out of debtor’s prison restricted me to the less exclusive stores on these rarified blocks (i.e., Esprit, Banana Republic, the Gap), I never failed to appreciate the restoration jobs some of the more exclusive establishments had done on the older structures that housed them. Just across the avenue, for instance, was Cartier, which sold its million-dollar diamond chokers out of a converted neo-Italian brownstone, circa 1905. It sat next to a landmark turn-of-the-century town house with a stunning white marble facade, originally erected for the family of George Vanderbilt and now occupied by Italian designer Versace, who’d spent a small fortune to restore it.

Even Henri Bendel was worth a stop now that the exclusive store had moved into the dignified old Coty Building. During that multimillion-dollar restoration, a priceless discovery was made in the upper story windows: more than two hundred panels of molded glass that formed a translucent tangle of stems and flowers. An architectural historian identified the work as that of René Lalique, the legendary French master of glass and jewelry design. (To view the only other example of this artisan’s work in the United States, I’d have to fly 3,000 miles to L.A.)

“Are you coming?” Matt called, holding the heavy door open beneath Fen’s arched doorway.

“Sorry!”

I hustled my dawdling butt through the boutique’s entrance. Matt guided me past a strapping African American security guard and across the high-ceilinged showroom. The floor was pale-ocher marble, the walls glossy white. The display cases were beveled glass with shelves dramatically lit to look like liquid gold. Hand-tooled bags, $900 shoes, gorgeous leather belts, and silk scarves were displayed with the care of rare museum artifacts.

I respected fashion design. It was as admirable an art as any other. But my own shopping excursions were usually loud, messy hunts through the jam-packed racks of crowded outlet stores. Maybe that’s why the interiors of these quiet, exclusive boutiques gave made the willies-or maybe it was just my Catholic upbringing. (Put me in a large room with a vaulted ceiling, earnest whispering, and rare Italian marble, and I started looking around for the altar so I could genuflect.)

Fighting the urge to bend a knee, I scanned the vast first floor and spotted a familiar form-a rather hefty one. Food writer Roman Brio was sitting on a white leather couch, his large head bent over the latest issue of Gourmet.

In his late thirties, Roman was basically an overgrown imp with dark eyes and apple cheeks in a blanched-almond complexion. His luminous, penetrating gaze in a baby face reminded me of a young Orson Welles; and, despite his girth (which reminded me of the later Orson), Roman was almost always stylishly dressed. Today he wore a finely tailored off-white suit with a loose, open-collared linen shirt of peacock purple and a matching kerchief stuffed in the suit’s breast pocket. His loafers were polished into glossy leather mirrors; and, in a bold statement of I’m here, I’m queer, get over it, his purple socks matched his shirt.

Roman attributed his love of food to his family’s live-in French cook. Sure, he was the youngest son in a prominent Boston tribe, but the kind and loving woman who looked after him in the family’s kitchen was the one who’d effectively raised him. As he got older, Roman accompanied his parents on their travels, and by his sixteenth birthday, he’d sampled almost every major cuisine in the world.

Unfortunately for Roman, his exalted family of judges, physicians, and scientists had been appalled by his desire to make a career in restaurant work. They pressured him through four years of premed before he ditched it all and moved to New York City.

Cut off from their financial support, he couldn’t afford culinary school, so he took jobs waiting tables in fine restaurants, befriended the chefs and sommeliers, and began to write chatty, flamboyant pieces on food and dining under the name Brio (a pen name made legal) for the Village Voice . Before long, glossy magazines like New York Scene and Food & Wine were publishing his work, and he was cowriting cook-books and memoirs with some of the city’s most talked-about chefs.

I’d first met the man last fall, during a coffee-tasting party at the Beekman Hotel, then again during my investigation of Chef Tommy Keitel’s death. (Roman knew New York ’s foodie scene better than the back of his chubby hand, so he was a valuable informant, to say the least.)

It was a stroke of luck seeing him here, since he’d been friends with Breanne Summour for years. As I understood the story, she’d been the very first editor to give Roman a restaurant review column in a national magazine. He’d always been grateful to her for that. And their friendship had grown over the years, going beyond the professional. The way he and Breanne spoke to each other and often acted was more like brother and sister than professional colleagues.

I tugged Matt’s apricot Polo shirt, or more precisely the snug-fitting sleeve above his bulging biceps. “I’m going to speak with Roman.”

“Fine. I’m going into the fitting room area to find Breanne, explain the situation.”

We parted, and I headed over to the white leather couch.

“Hello there, Roman. How’ve you been?”

The food writer glanced up from his magazine. “Why, Clare Cosi! Hello there, yourself.” He took in my worn jeans, scuffed boots, and long-sleeved cotton jersey. “Were you looking for the Gap, sweetie? It’s up the street.”

“No, Roman. I’m here on purpose to… help out Breanne today.”

Roman’s dark eyes brightened. “Do tell?”

“Matt’s going to find her and explain it all.” I pointed at the departing back of my ex-husband. Roman’s gaze followed the man’s posterior with nearly as much appreciation as Sue Ellen Bass had the night before. Then he shut his magazine and patted the empty seat next to him on the couch.

“Sit down, Clare. This I’ve got to hear.”

Roman was not unfamiliar with the history of my sleuthing, especially the cases I’d solved in the Hamptons and at the Beekman, and I knew I could trust him. I told him the basics of the situation and asked him to keep my mission to himself for now. I’d talk to Breanne after Matt came back.

“Certainly,” he said. “I don’t envy the job ahead of you. Breanne makes enemies on a daily basis.”

“That’s what Matt’s mother said.”

“Are you sure she didn’t pull that trigger last night?”

“ Almost positive.”

Just then, I noticed Matt already striding back to the boutique’s lobby. He was rubbing his forehead, his features displaying a look of exasperation.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as he approached the couch.

“Breanne won’t let me into her fitting room. I told her it was important, but she barred the door.” Matt shook his head. “She just kept shouting that it’s terrible luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding day.”